


My Second Heart (the first failed)

by imbellarosa



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: But also, Gen, M/M, Multi, a lot of crowley, also some religious traditions, bc their SO CUTE TOGETHER okay, because its super cool and im really passionate about learning and sharing awesome things, i had to have some aziraphale, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 20:53:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imbellarosa/pseuds/imbellarosa
Summary: Crowley saunters vaguely downwards and then vaguely ascends again.





	My Second Heart (the first failed)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saramir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saramir/gifts), [BelgianReader2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelgianReader2/gifts).

> HI OKAY READY: so it's been a while right. I was in this whole writing mindset and then I stopped and then I started again and it wasn't fanfic and then I hit a block there and then GOOD OMENS IS AMAZING and none of this is coherent but basically I HAVE REAPPEARED 
> 
> I had a convo with a friend a while ago about the interpretation of the Torah and he was telling me a bit about this theory that any interpretation/question is valid because it is based on the Word of God, and it therefore IS the Word of God as well. Combine this with the fact that Neil Gaiman (a Jewish man) infused (by his own admission) a lot of Jewish characteristics in Crowley - well, this fic wrote itself basically. It's super dear to me because it allowed me to research a part of my culture that I don't celebrate every day and that I don't know as much about. All this is to say I'm actually very proud of this one. 
> 
> A few more things: 1.) I am a person of faith, and a lot of this is informed by that. Sorry, it just is. 
> 
> 2.) WOAH THANK YOU SO MUCH TO MY BETA @saramir (dalek-in-heels on tumblr) AND MY SENSITIVITY READER @belgianreader2 (both here and on tumblr) THEY'RE AMAZING AND THEY PUT UP W A LOT TO HELP ME WRITE EVERYTHING 
> 
> 3.) title comes from Dean Young's "Belief in Magic". Amazing poet, amazing work.

It wasn’t a nice day. In fact, it wasn’t a day at all; there hadn’t been any days yet. But there were plans in the making and then talk of revolution and then  _ an actual attempt  _ at revolution, and all in all, heaven was short a few hundred angels and there was something in the air. It was being called  _ light _ . The angel Raphael kind of liked the idea.

He was standing with Gabriel, looking down at a new angel with shocking white hair, who was nodding every seriously at the instructions that Micheal was giving him.

“So who’s he, then,” Raphael muttered to Gabriel from the side of his mouth.

“A new Angel,” Gabriel said. “There’s a new plan, you know. From the almighty. She says it’s The Divine Plan, and it starts in a garden.”

“Ends there, too, I suppose,” Raphael had always thought that there was something - a bit odd with this plan, but he could never quite put his finger on it. Lucifer had been wrong, he was sure enough of that, but. There was a missing piece to this plan, and he didn’t quite know what it was. He knew that he had been told to take light and throw it into the heavens, in masses of spinning, flaming, moving balls of fire that, when looked at from a safe enough distance, looked like diamonds. And so he did. They were now called stars. 

“No.”” Gabriel leans in, as if he’s going to tell him a secret. “It ends with War. And Death and Pestilence and Famine, too, I suppose. But mainly War. Us against them. And we will win.”

“Er, right,” Raphael says, deeply uncomfortable with the idea, “So. What’s the new angel got to do with it?”

“Oh, very little.” Gabriel shrugs, “He’s the Angel of the Eastern Wall. He’s to make sure that the humans stay on our side. It shouldn’t be too difficult. She’s sure to put the fear of - well, the fear of  _ Her _ in them.”

“Um. So, sorry, let me just - are they meant to be puppets? Or have we just got a scapegoat for when - if, yes, sorry - if they’re tempted from our friends downstairs?”

Gabriel turns to look at him, something different in his eyes. 

“Raphael, these questions,” he says in a voice that sounds light but is anything but. “Some would think you're Questioning - Doubting, dare I say?”

“Oh, come off it,” Raphael scoffs. “Don’t be stupid. I’m just saying - look. It doesn’t make sense to create these humans, and their own special angel to go with them, just to stick them in paradise for all eternity. Or, sorry, yes. To stick them in paradise so long as they don’t eat an apple.  _ And then _ , just as six millennia of nothing passes, we start a war just to prove we can. 

“It seems to me that if it’s a War she’s after, she could fight it right now, and probably win it, too. Lucifer’s petulant, and he gave Michael a run for her money, but he’d be no match for Her and we both know it.” 

Gabriel opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. 

“I. I think I have to report this to the head office.”

“ _ Oh come on _ ,” Raphael sighs, and then the world is still. 

*

Looking into the face of The Divine is - difficult - to describe. You can’t ever really see Her, but you always get a vague sense of someone smiling down on you 

“Raphael,” She says, not unkindly. “It’s been a long time.”

“Has it?” Raphael’s eyebrows shoot up, his golden iris’ alight with mischief, “I’ve got a really bad concept of time, you know.”

“You always did have a sense of humor,” She sounds to him like she’s mulling something over, like a writer who’s come to a crossroads in their plot. “I love that about you, you know. Your imagination.”

“Oh, I dunno," Raphael shrugs in a distinctly unangelic manner. “Angels haven’t got imagination, you know.”

“Michael only says that because he wouldn’t know how to use it if he read the instruction manual.”

Raphael laughs. He had always loved Her. Never really got any time with Her - she was God, after all, and ineffable at that - but he had always loved Her. 

“Look,” he says seriously, clasping his hands behind his back, “I have to ask: the Angel of the Eastern Wall? What’s that about?”

“His name is Aziraphale. He’ll be on apple tree duty, for a time, and he’s meant to live among them - to make sure everything happens the way it’s supposed to.”

“Aziraphale?” The name feels heavy in his mouth. “What’s that mean?”

“Nothing,” she says blandly. “It’s a name. I made it up.”

“I’m sorry,” Raphael shakes his head, “I’ve missed something, haven’t I? Because it doesn’t make sense to send an angel to watch over a garden? Isn’t it meant to be paradise? And the forbidden fruit? I happen to know you  _ love  _ apples. And I don’t mean to be rude, but doesn’t it seem kind of like you're daring them to eat it? The only thing you need is to plant someone to  _ tell them  _ to eat it. Also - what’s this about a war? You know as well as I do that you could smite Lucifer from here into the next millennia if you wanted to.”

“You’re clever, Raphael. It’s one of your many gifts. Cleverness. Imagination. Brashness. Bravery. You could be very dangerous, if you so choose.”

“Me? Please.”” Raphael makes a face. “I made the stars. I have seen the future, and it can be glorious. I’d never do anything to endanger that.”

“What do you know about love?”

The question surprises Raphael, who thought he knew plenty about love. He was an angel, after all. 

“I know that it’s all-powerful, and endless. Ineffable, you might say.”

“No, no, Raphael, that’s  _ my  _ love. Tell me about your own.”

“I -erm - well. You’re going to laugh at me.” He’s aware of how young he sounds, and is struck for a moment that he  _ must  _ be pretty young, when compared to eternity. 

“I won’t.” She sounds like She’s smiling again, but it’s a specific smile, this time. It’s for him.

“Well. Sometimes I think about the sea. And I think about having a garden next to it. Not  _ the  _ garden, just - a small one, with bright overgrown flowers and vines that crawl up the side of a small cottage. And I think about music, but not our music. Something more - eclectic, maybe. And I think, that, maybe, there’s someone else there, too. I think that they know that the sea isn’t endless, and that the sky has a limit, and that they’ve felt your smile, and they choose to sit there, in that garden, overlooking the sea anyways. Knowing that some things last forever, and choosing all the things that do not.”

“Raphael, I’m going to tell you a story, and at the end of it, you have a choice to make. And you are free to make it.”

“I didn’t think I was allowed to ask questions. I’ve heard that angels fall for less.”

“There is an old tradition that will be called the midrash. I think you will be very good at it, Raphael.”

“Literally none of those words make sense to me.”

She smiles. 

*

Later, he will know that he’s crying. He will feel the tear tracks and they will burn because it will be the last holy thing he will have for a very long time. The next time he cries will be six thousand years from now, in a burning bookshop. But that isn’t for a long time yet. 

When she finishes her story, he smiles gently and says, “Well. How can I say no.”

She seems to sigh in a mixture of heartbreak and relief. 

“Just. Can I ask? When all of this is over, can I come  _ home _ ?”

“Raphael, I promise you: when this is all over, you will go home, and you will stay for the rest of eternity.”

“I won’t remember this, will I,” he asks, his voice low. 

“I do love you, you know.”

“I just. The angel. I won’t remember this anyways. What’s the Eastern Wall need an angel for?”

“Oh, Raphael,” She smiles proudly. “It’s not a wall. Aziraphale is the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and he will always be the angel East of Eden, although between you and me he’ll prefer to be on the western hemisphere.”

“I’m sorry -  _ gate _ ? They aren’t staying in paradise?”

“Well, it’s their choice, of course,” She says slowly, sounding like her smile isn’t all there anymore. “But - well, they have  _ imagination _ , of course. I’d be surprised if they didn’t choose the devil they don’t know over the God they do. But that’s alright - that’s how it’s meant to be.”

“I - no. I’m sorry,” Raphael’s curls flew across his face as he shook his head with vigor. “This doesn’t make any sense. You  _ want  _ them to disobey?”

“Now.”” She seems to be smiling again. “That’s ineffability for you, I’m afraid. And I’ve told you rather more than I should. Raphael.” Her voice goes serious and deep and very, very old.“You have a choice now. And you must make it.”

“I’ll miss you, you know,” Raphael smiles a small, sad smile as he speaks his last words as an angel. “And I forgive you. I won’t remember it, but. I suppose you’ll do it for the both of us. Just promise me one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

He fixes his golden eyes on her. 

“ _ Win _ . And then bring me home.”

*

He won’t ever really remember the fall. Just pain, and a drop at the pit of his stomach that never ends. And a burning at the root of his wings. And pain and pain and pain. 

And then. When he opens his eyes they feel different. He can feel hundreds of eyes on him.

“Raphael,” a gruff voice asks with what could have been wonder. 

“No,” he says, and his voice doesn’t sound like him. It’s cold and distant and hard and angry. “Not anymore.” 

***

The sand is hot and white and it hits his face and seems to strip him of his skin. It could be like shedding, if he thinks about it. 

“Raphael,” the man says, his back to him.

“Well,” he replies steadily. “ ‘ s been a while since I’ve heard that name, hasn’t it? But no. The name’s Crawly.”

“Because you’re a snake,” the man says, and Crawly thinks he hears a smile. It sounds a bit familiar. “That’s clever. Bet no one guessed that one. And what did She have to say about it?”

“Well, for your information,  _ they  _ picked my name, thanks very much. And  _ She  _ didn’t have a say in it at all.”

“It doesn’t really suit you, you know. Not with all those stars having your fingerprints on them.”

“Look, I don’t really know what I’m meant to be doing here.  _ They  _ said to come and make trouble for you but, no offense, I don’t really know who you are, and your mind seems rather made up.”

“I’m no one special,” the man turns around to face Crawly, his dark eyes shining with amusement. “I’m just a carpenter from Nazareth.”

“Alright, Mr. Carpenter - From - Nazareth. Let’s say I believe you. What the heaven’re you out here for?”

“To meet you of course.,” Hhe smiles and walks right up to Crawly and hugs him. An honest to goodness hug. Crawly freezes, and the man laughs. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s just a hug.” 

Crawly yanks himself back as if something burned him. He turns on his heel and stares at the sun, which says it’s roughly three o’clock. 

“I’m meant to tempt you, you know. Promise you fabulous wealth and pleasure beyond your wildest imagination. I’m even supposed to pull out the immortality card, if it comes to that.”

“Well,” the man clasps his hands and rubs them together in anticipation. “Go on, then. I’d like to hear it.”

“We can do it, you know. Make you immortal, that is. They say you’re about to experience pain the likes of which only a handful of people will ever imagine.”

“Do you know that millions of my people will die. And not just in the next few years. They will die on crosses like mine and on deserts like this one and in camps, being starved. They will be beaten and drowned and forgotten. They will be incarcerated. They will be killed by their country and by others. Children will starve and women will never see their child again. Fathers will let go of their sons so that they might have a better life.

“I know what comes next. They do not. And some of them will look to me. Some of these friends that I haven’t met yet will think upon me when they are suffering and in pain. And so I will protect them in the only way I can.”

“What, dying? That’s ridiculous and you know it.”

“It’s ineffable.”

“Aziraphale says that word all the time, you know. I’m sort of sick of hearing it.”

“Aziraphale is wiser than heaven gives him credit for.”

“Oh, you know him?”

“Our paths have crossed many times. He’s trying to get some of my friends to write a book, you know. Peter and Paul seem particularly taken with the idea.”

They sit in silence for a while. The sun goes down, and it comes back up. 

“You know,” Crawly says eventually. “Sacrificing yourself won’t protect anyone. Look. I don’t know if you’re the King of the Jews or the Son of God or whatever the hell - heaven - oh, fuck it - I don’t know who you are. But I know that you know what’s going to happen if you continue asking questions. Disobedience doesn’t sit well with those in power. Take it from me.

“ _ And  _ I know that your death won’t stop any of the others. So what if you just - didn’t die?”

“Everything dies, Raphael,” the man says kindly.

“Not everything,” Crawly says gloomily. 

“No, perhaps not. But endings are important, too.”

The man’s face is dark, and the sun has made it darker. His forehead shines with sweat and his hands are as rough as a tradesmans. Crawly thinks about the world’s obsession with beauty - his fault, really - and knows that this man will be drawn over and over again and not one person will get him right. 

“There’s a whole world out there, you know,” Crawly says, still not looking at the man. “You’ll never get to see it.’

“I’ve seen enough of it,” the man says. “I’ve got all of the world I want.” 

“Right, then,” Crawly claps his hand and stands up. “I’ll send word that I did my best to tempt you and your spirit is too pure and whatnot.”

He turns to leave, then pauses. 

“You know, a book might not be a bad idea. I’m not much of a reader, but if you’re going to all this trouble to make a statement, then people should have a way to remember it. I think I knew your friend Paul a few years back, but of course he was going by Saul then. Has a way with words, he does. A bit of a zealot, but.”

“Aziraphale will be pleased to hear that you like his idea.”

“Oh you can’t tell him. He’d never let me live it down.  _ Never _ . Not that he’s got a leg to stand on. Lost a flaming sword, he did. Straight out of the gate too!”

“Crawly,” the man fixes his eyes on him, and they’re full of laughter. “You know as well as I do that Aziraphale has never once lost anything in his life.”

“I - well. I don’t know what you mean,” Crawly smirks. 

“There is a word,” the man says, and his tone is a bit different now, “that will be important to my people. And it will mean ‘to contend with God’ or ‘God contends’.”

“Well that’s not the same thing at all, is it?”

“Isn’t it?” 

And the thing is - the thing that really  _ gets  _ Crawly - is that the man can’t be older than about thirty, and he’s standing here, pretending that he knows the answers to questions that haven’t been asked yet, questions that angels  _ fall _ for asking. 

“Right, well,” he coughs once. “If you happen upon that flaming sword,  _ do _ let me know, won’t you? I would never let Aziraphale live it down if I was to find his heaven issued weapon.”

“Eh,” the man shrugs, and he looks like one of the locals again when he smiles. “I probably won’t do that.”

“Figures,” Crawly says, but he’s laughing. “Okay. Last chance, princess. I can show you the world.”

“That would probably make for a good song, one day,” the man laughs. “But like I’ve said, I have everything I need.”

“Alright, then. I’d best be off. I think we’ve been here too long already, and I’m  _ way  _ behind on my quota for the month.”

“Raphael,” the man calls as Crawly goes to disappear. He goes still, and a low hiss comes out of his mouth.

“I’ve told you,” he hisses. “That isssssn’t my name anymore.”

“A few things to remember, before you go,” the man smiles good naturedly, as if he hadn’t said anything. “First of all, the name Crawly? It isn’t a good fit. I don’t really care what name you want to use instead, but that’s not a good one. Second: Aziraphale is right about a lot of things, and he’s wrong about a lot of things, too. His path is a different one, and he goes slower than you might. But he’s sharp, and his heart is a good one. He’ll get there. Third, I have told you the truth. I am Jesus, a carpenter from Nazareth, and I would like for you to remember me as such, so that when the time comes, you know what humanity is capable of. And the final: remember the ocean. And remember that the best things are fleeting and infinite and deeply ineffable.”

Crawly had tuned him out after the first lesson. No wonder people hadn’t listened until he’d started performing miracles: He was dry as a bone.  _ But a new name isn’t a bad idea _ , he thinks.  _ Maybe something with a J.  _

*

The next time Crawly sees Jesus, the carpenter from Nazareth, he’s going by Crowley, and the carpenter is dying, and Aziraphale has been sent to bear witness. Crowley stands there with him, and imagines the ocean. 

***

It’s meant to be the end of the world. And then it isn’t. 

“I’ve got all of the world I want,” Adam shoots at the powerful Beelzebub, and Crowley thinks of the man who’d said the same thing to him, all of those years ago 

And when it’s over, Crowley and Aziraphale go home, back to the books and the tea and the lunches at the Ritz and the drinks and without worrying about what either side will think of them. Crowley doesn’t miss the competition. Then, one day, without prompting, Aziraphale looks at him.

“I think I’d like to go to Jerusalem,” he says.

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley sighs and shakes his head. “Why? Haven’t we had enough of that nonsense to last us six more millennia?”

“Well, but this isn’t about  _ sides _ , dear,” Aziraphale says kindly, placing his hand between the blades of Crowley’s shoulders, where his wings would have been. “It’s about Her. It’s about contention.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Oh, you know,” Aziraphale blushes, as if he’s embarrassed about what he’s going to say. Which is, by the way, a ridiculous reaction by the man who can say the words  _ tickety-boo _ with a straight face. “The word Israel means ‘to contend with God’. I suppose that, after everything that’s happened, I have a few words I’d like to say to Her.”

Crowley’s mouth drops open.

“I...missed that. How did I miss that,” he murmurs to himself.

“Did you say something,” Aziraphale looks over from the book he’s reshelving. 

“No, not at all. I was just wondering when you’d like to leave.” 

***

Years later, Crowley will wake in the middle of the night - he really has no sense of when he went to sleep, but it is night when he wakes up. He can see Aziraphale’s desk light on, and the angel is hunched over his latest collectable. Crowley shifts and turns over.

“What time’s it?”

“A little half past three, my dear.” Aziraphale turns around and smiles. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you in the morning.”

“Come to bed,” Crowley mumbles as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, “‘m cold.”

“Oh, alright,” Aziraphale grumbles good naturedly. “You’re quite demanding, for an old snake, you know. You’re supposed to be self sufficient.”

“Hmmm,” Crowley says. “I could always wrap myself around your shoulders, if you like. I know how much you  _ love  _ that.”

Aziraphale, who loved Crowley very much, no matter his haircut or general appearance, had never quite gotten used to the feeling of a massive snake wrapped around his neck, and for all he was willing to let Crowley lounge about in the bookstore, it quite unsettled him to sleep with a snake. A small sin, perhaps. 

“Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what,” Aziraphale asks. “Heaven? Goodness no.”

“ _ London _ ,” Crowley corrects. “Your old book shop. The busy streets. It’s quiet out here.”

“Oh, but I like it here.” Aziraphale pads over and slips into bed. “The locals are very nice, and the town was overrun with book shops!”

It was true: Aziraphale’s bookshop would often open and close without a single soul walking in. He was overjoyed.

“And Adam seems to like it out here, far more than he did London,” Aziraphale continues. “And the sea. It just seems. I don’t know. It feels loved.”

“I know,” Crowley says in mock-offense. “Pity, isn’t it?”

Aizraphale shoots his a glance and Crowley snickers softly. 

“This place,” Aziraphale says, curling himself around Crowley, “feels like home.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, “suppose it does.” 

***

She smiles. Of course She plays games with the Universe, and She wins them, too. But She always keeps Her promises. A parent should, you know. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much! Please leave a comment - i live for them! Also! Come say hi and freak out with me at imbellarosa.tumblr.com! Thank you! <3 <3


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